The Thing with Feathers
by Spark Writer
Summary: Every day Sherlock watches him, the boy with the golden hair and burning eyes and calm determination. There is something different about him, something a bit extraordinary. He is a greater mystery than any Sherlock has solved so far. Teenlock.
1. Chapter 1

_(A/N): The idea for this ficlet popped into my head at two in the morning, and I decided to go with it. This is my first stab at Teenlock. Enjoy, and leave a review if you'd like. I always appreciate them. :)_

...

Every day, Sherlock watched him. Every day he studied the fine golden hairs that captured the classroom's fluorescent light so brilliantly. Every day he swept his eyes down the length of smooth, well muscled neck and along the boy's broad shoulders, imagining laying a palm on the sun tanned expanse of skin just to feel a tingle of human warmth. Every day he caught the boy gazing out the window; his face soft with sadness, his mouth just barely slackened as though he was staring into some other place, some better place—only to be wrenched back to the present by the professor's dreary questions. His eyes seemed blue at first, but as Sherlock studied them more carefully he noticed a steely grey beneath the blue that made the boy's eyes seem unfathomably deep. Gazing into them was like standing on a boat in the middle of the sea and looking down into the wild, shimmering, infinite depths. It was unbearably beautiful, but also terribly overwhelming, and threatened to wake the emotions Sherlock had stifled so well for so long.

Every day, the boy fiddled with his pen, lightly touching the tip to his wrist so that his skin was constantly marked with inky constellations. Sherlock watched as the boy flexed the fingers of his left hand beneath his desk, watched the boy's fingers tremble slightly as they rested on his lap. He noticed the brief flicker of pink each time the boy swept his tongue absently along his bottom lip.

And felt warm, too warm, under his regulation button down and blazer. Felt the sudden heat blooming on his prominent cheekbones, certain that his blushing was terribly obvious against the pallor of his skin. He would tear his gaze from the boy and glare at his textbook with utter resolution, determined to maintain his cold dignity and composure. But it was no good, because the boy always seemed to notice when Sherlock's eyes were no longer resting on him. He would turn to look at Sherlock with an unsmiling expression, his eyes burning a bright blue, making Sherlock feel as though his very soul was being examined. He despised this, the feeling that his faults and flaws and weaknesses were on display.

Yet the boy never looked at him with disgust and distaste, like everyone else on the godforsaken earth. He would stare into Sherlock's eyes for moment, brow furrowed, tongue peeking from between his lips, looking for all the world like someone trying to solve an infinite mystery. He was in a way, Sherlock thought in the quiet moments each night before sleep overtook him. The boy had no idea that Sherlock was so devastatingly complicated, shut off from everything but his sharp observations. The boy couldn't possibly know that Sherlock had been raised in an icy, acerbic family with no regard for human feelings. He couldn't grasp the dark rage buried in Sherlock, couldn't know that Sherlock's wonder and worldly innocence had rotted away long before he got the chance to truly appreciate them.

But the boy did seem to understand that Sherlock was not the untouchable, marble being he made himself out to be. And that was more than anyone else had ever been able to comprehend, which made the boy dangerously fascinating.

Sometimes, Sherlock envisioned a friendship between them, but he quickly discarded the idea. It would end in pain. That was how it was with Sherlock, how it had always been.

It was just like the audiences of his mother's supercilious friends that gathered to hear him play the violin. They would smile and nod like old wind up dolls during the performance, watching him with approval. They would stay for the swelling crescendos and breath-catching trills, bestowing him with a burst of polite applause after the last ringing note. But then, when he drew his bow away from the violin and let it hang limply at his side, their glassy smiles would fade and they would not meet his eyes. He would watch them retreat into the sitting room for tea; coldly detached, thinking that someday he would meet someone who wouldn't leave him when the song was over. He would meet someone who would stay with him through the silence, not needing to be impressed, not needing him to prove anything.

Bitterly, Sherlock would cast his violin on the sofa and go to his room, hating the treacherous toil of being alive.

Everyone would leave him. Everyone.

Expect, perhaps, for the boy in his history class, with the golden hair and burning eyes and calm determination. There was something different about him, something a bit extraordinary. He was a greater mystery than any Sherlock had solved so far, an impenetrable enigma, a puzzle that stuck in Sherlock's thoughts like a blade.

Every day, Sherlock watched him. Every day, he devoured the boy with his eyes, filled with a feeling that words could never describe.

He would call it hope.


	2. Chapter 2

_(A/N): I really didn't think I was going to write another chapter for this fic and, well, here we are. Obviously I couldn't resist. :) Thank you for your reviews on the previous chapter. They're brilliant!_

_..._

Sherlock was playing his violin one afternoon, after a particularly captivating chemistry lesson. He stood alone in the centre of an unused classroom, making use of a ray of brilliant sunlight that streamed down around him, making the wood of his Stradivarius gleam. Every stroke of the bow over the violin strings plunged him deeper into his own world, setting his mind afire, filling his chest with an aching rapture that only pulsed through him when he was enveloped in song. He was no longer an earthly being when he played; he became a part of the galaxy and the moon and the sun, part of the roiling ocean waves and the wind and the lightening, part of everything. His well practiced coldness left him, and he did not care. No one could possibly hurt him when he was in this divine state of mind, so close to the universe that he could see it rushing at him it a gorgeous vision of colour and light.

Sherlock increased the tempo of his playing, the sweetly wistful _pianissimo _building into something greater. He could feel the crescendo coming from a long way off, clenching deep in his gut, and closed his eyes against the dreary image of linoleum and stacked folding chairs and dusty textbooks.

He was playing his violin, yet it was playing him, every note an outburst of his long suppressed soul. It was not a song he'd played before. It came to him moment by moment, growing and growing, trembling with melancholic beauty. He gave himself up to it and swayed where he stood, opening his eyes to blink fondly at his violin before closing them again and sliding into perfect darkness.

He was nearing the climax of the crescendo. Something almost joyful crept into the music and try as he might, Sherlock could not stifle it. It turned his song into a wild thing, leaping and dancing and whirling with the raw, undiluted joy of being alive. Sherlock clung to his Stradivarius, eyes squeezed tight shut, feeling as though he and it were one and they were spinning through the cosmos the way the hands of a clock spun through time. The song was eternal, and for a brief, beautiful moment, so was he. . .

But it would end, as all good things did.

Sherlock scraped his bow over the strings in earnest, guiding the melody to a close. His song grew soft and tremulous and then went out altogether, its last note a low, shivering moan in D minor.

Silence fell, erasing all evidence that moments earlier, a tempestuous violinist had unleashed his every emotion within the plaster confines of the room. It was better that way, Sherlock thought, as he stooped to retrieve his polishing cloth.

He set to the task of wiping excess rosin from the neck and bridge of his violin, carefully avoiding the horsehair strings. He took his time, caring for the precious instrument as though it was his child. He removed the black shoulder pad from the body, and placed it gently in his velvet lined carrying case. He knelt and laid the violin and its accompanying bow in their proper spots, then closed the case with a soft snap. Grasping the handle, Sherlock rose to his feet and turned toward the door.

He froze.

The boy, _the_ boy, was staring at him from the doorway, leaning against the pine door frame.

Sherlock swept his eyes down the line of the boy's body. He was flushed, his skin was coated with a thin sheen of perspiration, his bare knees bore traces of mud and grass, and he was wearing a rumpled bottle green rugby uniform. His expression was one of guilt and badly disguised curiosity.

Sherlock stiffened. "How long have you been listening in?"

The boy swallowed, his embarrassment evident. "Not—I didn't—I wasn't trying to—" He sighed. "I was on my way to the showers when I heard you playing. I only meant to have a quick listen and leave before you noticed me, but I couldn't leave without telling you what I thought. That was—"

"What makes you think that I am in any way interested in your opinions?" Sherlock plucked his coat from a chair and slipped it on.

The boy fell silent, a rosy blush spreading over his face and neck. He said nothing as Sherlock snatched his school bag from the floor and swung the strap over his shoulder.

Sherlock marched to the door, pausing briefly in front of the boy. "I need to get past," he said impatiently.

"Right," said the boy, stepping out of the way.

Sherlock swept past him, clenching his fingers around the wooden handle of his violin case. His heart was galloping uncomfortably in his chest, and he felt the boy's eyes on him, unyielding. He walked down the corridor with long strides, keen to get as far away as he could.

He kept his gaze fixed on the double doors at the end of the hallway, moving quickly and with purpose.

"You were brilliant, though, whether you care to hear it or not," someone said from behind him, in a voice warm with admiration.

Sherlock stopped beside a cracked bust of William Shakespeare. He gritted his teeth. He flexed the fingers of his free hand, clenching and unclenching, telling himself to _ignore the boy _and _walk away _and _exit the situation as though you don't give a damn. _

But he could not. A force greater than will was acting on him, and that was the magnetic tug of the boy with the beautifully burning eyes.

Sherlock turned around. The boy was walking toward him, smiling slightly as he shifted his rucksack from one arm to the other. "Knew there had to be a way to get you to slow down," he said, grinning at Sherlock.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Flattery has no effect on me, lest I give you the wrong impression."

"You _were_ amazing. I'm being completely serious."

Sherlock felt a smile working its way onto his face, and quickly schooled his features. "I believe you," he said. And then, a bit stiffly— "Thank you."

The boy dropped his rucksack at his feet, leaving no more than a metre between them. "I'm John Watson," he said, extending a calloused hand.

"I know," said Sherlock, taking John's hand. "Professor Wilkes addresses you by your full name in class."

"Oh, right. Well, that's because there are—"

"Three other students called John,'" Sherlock finished for him. "I am aware. And I assume you already know my name, but for the sake a proper introduction, I'm Sherlock Holmes."

John squeezed his hand and Sherlock let go rather quickly.

"It's a pleasure to meet you." John smiled, running a hand through his sweat-stiffened blond hair. "You're a hell of a violin player. Top student in biochemistry, as well, I hear."

Sherlock gave a noncommittal shrug of his shoulders. "Music and science are the two things I don't despise in this world. It makes sense that I should excel in those areas."

John looked as though he was about to reply when, at the other end of the corridor, a half dozen rugby players appeared, all decked out in identical bottle green uniforms.

The tallest one spotted John standing with Sherlock, and frowned. "Oi, Watson!"

John spun round and saw his teammates staring crossly at him. "Yeah?"

"Get your arse in the locker room pronto! We need to discuss our strategy for Thursday's match."

"Coming," said John. He looked back at Sherlock.

Something clenched in Sherlock's chest, something like affection. He felt vaguely nauseous.

"I have to go," said John. He looked into Sherlock's eyes, surrounding him with that unimaginable blue.

"John," Sherlock said in a soft baritone. "Wait."

"Yes?"

"Come to the music room tomorrow at 4:30."

"Why?"

"Just come," said Sherlock. He bent to pick up John's rucksack and hand it to him. "They're waiting," he murmured, indicating the rugby players with a nod.

"Alright," said John. He smiled and the corridor seemed to brighten with the sheer beauty of it, of John Watson and his simple radiance.

"Tomorrow," said Sherlock, and slipped away, the hem of his coat fluttering around his ankles.


End file.
